Stannis Baratheon and his Stormguards pressed toward Maegor's Holdfast, their boots ringing against the cobblestones. Among them staggered a wounded Watchman, his face ashen, streaked with dirt and sweat. His breaths rasped in shallow, anguished bursts, each step a battle as blood seeped from his wound, leaving a crimson trail on the stones.
They reached the serpentine steps, a winding staircase carved deep into the Red Keep's heart, its stone polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. The steps spiralled downward, each turning a narrow passage flanked by cold, damp walls, the air growing cooler as they descended.
Stannis's blue eyes scanned the shadows ahead, his jaw set with determination, but the steps remained eerily empty. No Gold Cloaks, red keep guards or Lannister soldiers, only the silence of a fortress abandoned by its defenders, or perhaps overtaken by the invaders elsewhere.
The captive's pace faltered, his trembling legs betraying his blood loss. Stannis shot him a glance, impatience flickering across his stern features. "How much farther?" he growled, his voice a low rumble that reverberated off the stone, slicing through the prisoner's labored wheezing.
The Watchman raised his head, eyes glassy with pain and fear. "Not… not far," he rasped, voice barely a whisper. "These steps lead to the lower courtyard. The Holdfast's entrance is there."
( map of the red keep)
Stannis nodded and pressed forward.
The stairs finally ended. They arrived in the lower courtyard encircled by towering walls, overshadowed by the Red Keep's looming inner towers. The guards spread out slightly to cover the rear and flanks, their spears ready to face any danger. It seemed the Lannisters had not yet reached this deep into the Keep, their focus likely on the throne room, which was located on the other side of the red keep.
The courtyard was silent, the only sound the prisoner's ragged breathing and the faint drip of water from an unseen source. Torches mounted on the walls cast a feeble light, illuminating the courtyard's stone floor. Stannis paused, his gaze sweeping the area. The courtyard was deserted.
The prisoner, leaning heavily against a guard's arm, raised his remaining hand with a weak gesture, pointing toward the far side of the yard.
"There… the entrance," he rasped, his voice trembling as blood continued to seep from his stump, pooling at his feet.
Stannis followed the man's gaze and froze, his breath catching at the sight before him.
Maegor's Holdfast loomed like a monolith, its pale red walls unyielding, a fortress within a fortress. But what he hadn't anticipated was its formidable defences: thick, unbroken walls rose high, surrounded by a dry moat bristling with iron spikes that gleamed wickedly in the torchlight. A drawbridge spanned the chasm, its heavy timbers hoisted upright, chains taut, sealing the entrance shut.
"A drawbridge?" Stannis muttered, disbelief edging his voice as his brow furrowed.
"I didn't know the Red Keep had such a thing." The flaw in his plan hit like a Warhammer. He turned to the prisoner, eyes narrowing with suspicion and frustration.
"Is there no other way in?" he demanded, his tone sharp as Valyrian steel.
The Captive shook his head weakly, his face paling further as he struggled to stand upright.
The captive shook his head, his pallor ghostly as he struggled to stand. "No… this is the only way," he whispered, voice breaking. "I swear it."
Stannis's temper flared. His patience snapped like a taut bowstring as he seized the prisoner by the collar and hauled him to the moat's edge. With a surge of strength, he shoved the man forward, holding him precariously over the iron spikes below, his feet still on solid ground but his body tilted toward the deadly points. The Watchman's scream shattered the silence, a high, desperate wail as blood dripped from his stump, spattering the spikes.
"Are you certain?" Stannis roared, his voice a thunderclap, blue eyes blazing. "No hidden doors? No secret paths?"
The man's cries dissolved into sobs, tears cutting tracks through the filth on his face as he nodded frantically.
"Yes… I'm sure! The only way! I beg you, don't kill me!" His body shook, a dark stain spreading across his breeches.
Stannis's gaze hardened. He pulled the prisoner back from the moat's edge, releasing him with a rough shove that sent the man sprawling to the ground. The captive collapsed, curling into himself, his sobs muffled against the stone. Stannis stepped back, his mind racing as he stared at the raised drawbridge.
"How did Clegane get in?" he wondered, his voice a low murmur tinged with frustration.
"Did the brute fly? Or did he jump like the Hulk?" The image of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, jumping on the moat flashed through his mind, coaxing a chuckle. He turned to his guards, his expression shifting to a sarcastic smirk.
"Which of you knows how to fly?" he asked, a wry smirk twisting his lips.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, shaking their heads, their faces a mix of confusion and amusement at their lord's rare jest. Stannis's smirk faded as he continued, his voice growing stern.
"I suspect you lack hooks and ropes as well. A fine predicament." His gaze returned to the drawbridge, its raised bridge a mocking barrier, and he muttered under his breath, "Why didn't I know there'd be a drawbridge here? A useless Tiktokers, they never mentioned it."
( I did some research and found out that ''Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch scaled the walls of Maegor's Holdfast.'' And I have no idea how they did it, there's no more information about it on the internet. )
As he stood, thinking about the solution to the problem, a sudden movement caught his eye. High above, in a narrow, grilled window set into the Holdfast's thick wall, a figure appeared, a man, perhaps a guard, his face covered by the distance and the dim light.
Stannis's head snapped up, his hand tightening on Heartsbane's hilt as he stepped forward, his voice booming with authority.
"You there! Lower the drawbridge!" he bellowed, his words a thunderclap that echoed off the stone walls, carrying the weight of command across the courtyard.
The figure leaned forward slightly but gave no reply, his silence a defiant spark to Stannis's growing frustration. He raised his voice again, each word a hammer strike.
"Hear me! Aerys and Rhaegar are dead. I am Stannis Baratheon, brother to Robert Baratheon, your new king. Lower the bridge, and I swear by my honor that you and your fellows shall not be harmed!"
He paused, letting his words sink in. His Stormguards stood tense, weapons ready, eyes locked on the window, the tension palpable as they awaited a response. Stannis pressed on, his voice unwavering.
"The war's fate is decided. You cannot hold out much longer. If the Lannisters capture you first, expect no mercy; they will slaughter you all. Will you die for the Mad King?"
A faint murmur drifted from the window, the guard's voice barely audible. "How do we know you're Stannis Baratheon? Prove it!" The challenge hung heavy, laced with suspicion.
Before Stannis could respond, one of his guards stepped forward, a muscular man with a bearded face, his cloak worn inside out to hide the Baratheon sigil during their approach to King's Landing's walls.
With a swift motion, he untied the cloak, revealing the yellow crowned stag of House Baratheon on a black background. He held the cloak high, the torchlight catching the sigil as he turned it for the window to see, his voice ringing out with defiance.
"See now? Believe it!" he shouted, his tone a mix of pride and challenge, the sigil a beacon of their lord's identity.
The guard above fell silent. Stannis watched, hand still on Heartsbane, his gaze unyielding, a storm brewing in his eyes. Then, with a groan of ancient gears, the drawbridge stirred. Chains rattled, timbers creaked, and the bridge began its slow descent, the iron spikes below vanishing as the path to Maegor's Holdfast opened at last. The prisoner crumpled to the ground, let out a shuddering sob of relief.
The drawbridge descended, its heavy chains rattling like the bones of some long-dead beast, the sound echoing through the lower courtyard of the Red Keep. The iron spikes of the dry moat were hidden from view and were replaced with a wooden bridge; the path to Maegor's Holdfast lay open.
Stannis stepped onto the drawbridge, his boots thudding against the old wood. His Stormguards followed in tight formation, their movements precise, their eyes scanning the shadows for threats. The wounded captive was dragged by one of the guards, his remaining hand clutching the man's arm. As they crossed, the bridge creaked beneath their weight. On the far side, the entrance to Maegor's Holdfast loomed, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond.
Six figures emerged from the shadows of the entrance, their forms illuminated by the flickering light of a single torch mounted on the wall. Targaryen guards, clad in dark armor that gleamed dully, their black cloaks bearing the three-headed dragon sigil. Their half-helms covered much of their faces, but as Stannis drew closer, he could see their youth, "barely men", he thought.
Their postures tense, their hands gripping spears. Their eyes, visible through the slits of their helms, were wide with fear, the kind of raw, unfiltered terror that spoke of inexperience.
Stannis halted a few paces from them, his Stormguards spreading out behind him, a silent wall of steel. He studied the guards, noting their trembling hands and the way their gazes darted between him and his men as if expecting an attack at any moment.
"Are you all that remains?" he asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble that cut through the silence, his blue eyes piercing as they met the gaze of the guard at the forefront.
The lead guard, a slender youth, swallowed hard and nodded.
"Yes, Lord Stannis," he said, his voice trembling slightly, betraying his nerves.
"The others… they left to fight or to protect their families after we heard the Lannister army starting to sack the city." His words hung heavy.
Stannis's gaze swept over the six guards once more, their youthful faces carved with dread, their armor ill-fitting on their slender frames. He could almost feel the weight of their terror, a mirror to the chaos that had driven their comrades to flee.
"Raise the drawbridge," he ordered, his tone as unyielding as steel. "And open it for no one without my command."
The guards nodded in unison, their movements jerky with anxiety, and two of them hurried to the winch mechanism near the entrance. The drawbridge began to rise once more, sealing the Holdfast from the outside world. Stannis turned to his Stormguards.
"Two of you, remain here," he commanded, his voice steady. "Ensure the bridge stays raised." His gaze shifted to the wounded watchman, who lay slumped against the wall, his wound bleeding, his breathing shallow. Stannis's lips pressed into a thin line. "And burn that man's wound."
The Stormguards nodded, their faces set with the grim of men familiarised to such tasks. One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Torren with a scar across his cheek, stepped toward the wall, unhooking a lit torch from its sconce, the flames casting a warm glow across his weathered features. Another guard, a wiry youth named Edd, knelt beside the prisoner, gripping the man's arm firmly to hold him still. The watchmen's eyes widened in panic, his sobs turning to a whimper as he realised what was coming.
"No, please—" he began, but Edd's grip tightened, pinning him against the stone floor.
Torren brought the torch closer, the flames licking at the air, their heat noticeable even from a distance. The prisoner thrashed weakly, his voice rising to a scream as the fire neared his stump, the raw, bloody flesh glistening in the torchlight. Edd held him steady, his jaw clenched, his eyes averted as Torren pressed the flame against the wound. The hissing of burning flesh filled the corridor, a sickening sound accompanied by the smell of burnt skin, the prisoner's scream reaching a fevered pitch before dissolving into a choked sob. The fire burned the stump, blackening the edges and sealing the wound in a brutal but effective way. Watchman's body went limp, his consciousness slipping away as the pain overwhelmed him. Torren pulled the torch back, while Edd released the man, letting him sink fully to the floor.
Stannis watched the scene, then he turned to the lead Targaryen guard, who stood rigid, his youthful face pale beneath his helm.
"What's your name?" Stannis asked, his voice low but firm, his blue eyes locking onto the boy's.
"Devan, my lord," he replied, his words barely above a whisper, his hands tightening around his spear as if it were a lifeline.
Stannis nodded, his expression unreadable.
"Devan, take me to Princess Elia," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Devan dipped his head in a quick, nervous bow.
"At once, my lord, she is in the nursery", he said, his voice steadier now. He turned, gesturing for Stannis to follow, and led the way into the Holdfast, the remaining eight Stormguards falling into step behind their lord.
They moved through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. The walls were thick and plain, the pale red stone absorbing the flickering torchlight, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. The silence was muggy, broken only by the soft clinking of armor and the echo of their boots on the stone.
After several minutes of navigating the labyrinthine halls, they arrived at a heavy wooden door, its surface carved with faint dragon symbols, now worn and faded with age. Stannis noted the absence of guards at the entrance, his brow furrowing as he turned to Devan.
"No one stands watch over the princess?" he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
Devan flinched, guilt flickering across his face.
"There… should have been two guards," he stammered. "They must have fled."
Stannis's lips thinned, but he said nothing, his gaze shifting to the door. He raised a fist and knocked, the sound a dull thud against the wood. A few seconds passed in tense silence, the corridor heavy with tension. Then, from the other side of the door, a soft, slightly trembling voice called out, "Who is it?"
Stannis turned to Devan and the Stormguards, his expression stern.
"Wait here," he ordered, his voice low but firm. Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly, and stepped inside, closing it behind him with a quiet thud.
The nursery was a large, dimly lit chamber, its walls draped with faded paints on the wall showing scenes of Old Valyria, dragons soaring over molten landscapes, their scales shimmering in threads of gold and crimson, now dulled by time. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender. Windows allowed the moonlight to spill across the floor, illuminating the empty cradle near a window.
Standing near the cradle was Elia Martell, her slender frame wrapped in a flowing gown of deep orange, the color of a Dornish sunset, its fabric glowing faintly in the torch's light.
Elia was said to be beautiful, even in this moment of distress, with dark hair cascading in soft waves, and black eyes gleaming like obsidian. Her skin was a warm olive, kissed by the sun of her native Dorne, though now it bore the paleness of exhaustion and grief, her cheeks streaked with the faint tracks of tears. She was slender, almost fragile in appearance, her posture that of a woman who had endured much yet refused to break. In her arms, she cradled her infant son, Aegon, his silver hair glinting in the dim light, his small chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep.
Elia's gaze snapped to Stannis as he entered, her black eyes widening with a flicker of fear. She took a step back, then another, her movements instinctive and protective, her grip tightening on Aegon as she retreated toward the cradle. She had never seen this man before.
Summoning her courage, she straightened, her voice trembling but firm, a mother's defiance in the face of danger.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her tone sharp despite the tremble beneath it, her eyes searching his.
Stannis paused, sensing the raw fear in her voice. He raised his hands slightly, palms open, a rare gesture of peace from a man more used to wielding steel.
"Do not be afraid," he said, his voice steady, measured, each word chosen with care. "I am Stannis Baratheon. I mean you no harm. I am here to ensure the Lannisters do not touch you."
Elia's breath caught, a flicker of relief softening the tension in her shoulders, though her eyes remained wary.
"Stannis?" she echoed, her voice softening as recognition dawned. "You are Robert's brother. The man who defeated the Tyrells." Her words carried a mix of wonder and suspense, her knowledge of Stannis filtered through tales, his victory over the Tyrells a legend even in red keep.
A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of Stannis's lips, a fleeting crack in his stern facade.
"Aye, that I am," he replied, his tone softening slightly, though his gaze remained sharp. He glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing as he noted the absence of another presence.
"Where is Princess Rhaenys?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with concern.
Elia's expression faltered, a shadow of grief passing over her features, her voice breaking as she answered.
"Rhaenys is in Rhaegar's bedroom," she said, her tone heavy with the weight of loss. "She waits for her father."
The mention of Rhaegar, her fallen husband, brought a tremor to her voice, her black eyes glistening with unshed tears as the reality of his death pressed down on her.
Stannis turned toward the door, his voice rising with authority as he called out,
"Boris!" The door creaked open, and one of his Stormguards stepped inside, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a grey beard, his dark eyes steady as he met Stannis's gaze.
"Yes, my lord?" Boris replied, his voice deep and unwavering, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Take three men and Devan," Stannis ordered, his tone clipped, precise. "Find Princess Rhaenys. She's in Rhaegar's bedroom ." Boris inclined his head, his expression resolute.
"Yes, my lord," he said, turning on his heel and disappearing back into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him.
Stannis turned back to Elia, who had moved to the cradle, gently laying Aegon down, her hands lingering on the sleeping child as if to reassure herself of his safety. The infant shifted slightly but did not wake. Elia straightened, her orange gown rustling softly, and approached Stannis, her steps hesitant but determined, her black eyes searching his face for answers. She stopped a pace away, her voice trembling.
"What will become of me and my children?" she asked, her words heavy with the weight of uncertainty, her hands clasped tightly before her.
Stannis met her gaze, his expression unreadable, the weight of her question settling heavily on his shoulders.
"I do not know," he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with a rare uncertainty. "That is not mine to decide. We must wait for Robert." His honesty was a cold comfort, but it was all he could offer.
Elia's composure cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands, her slender frame shaking with silent sobs. The grief, the fear, the uncertainty of her children's fate, it was too much to bear.
Stannis watched, a pity starting in his chest. Without fully understanding why, he stepped forward, his movements awkward but earnest, and wrapped his arms around her. Elia stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her tears soaking into his cloak as she wept against his shoulder, her hands clutching at the fabric as if anchoring herself to his strength.
"Fear not," Stannis murmured, his voice softer now, a rare warmth threading through his words. "My brother may despise Targaryens, but he is no butcher of children."
Slowly, Elia's sobs subsided, her breathing steadying, though she did not pull away, finding a quiet warmth in Stannis's embrace, a flicker of safety in a night of horrors. But the moment was shattered by a sudden commotion from the corridor beyond the door, shouts and a muffled curse. Elia pulled back, her eyes wide with alarm, her voice trembling. "What's happening?" she asked, her hands tightening around Stannis's arm, her gaze darting to the door.
"Stay here," Stannis ordered, his tone sharp as he separated himself from her, his hand moving to his back to the sword. He strode to the door, his movements swift and purposeful, and yanked it open, stepping into the corridor beyond, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud.
Stannis's four remaining Stormguards stood in a defensive line, their weapons drawn, two with spears levelled, their points gleaming, and two with bows, arrows nocked and strings taut, their eyes fixed on the far end of the hall.
Stannis followed their gaze, his hand tightening on his sword as he saw the figure approaching from the corridor's far end. Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, his massive frame filling the passage, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the stone. He stood nearly eight feet tall, his bulk encased in dark, battered plate armor, stained with blood that could have belonged to him or his victims; it was impossible to tell. His greatsword, a monstrous blade nearly as long as a man, was gripped in one massive hand, its edge crusted with dried blood, the steel glinting ominously in the torchlight. His face was covered by a great helm.